Cliche
by Dakota Riley
Summary: Riza Hawkeye hates to read romance because the stories are too cliche. What about a romance with a certain Colonel? Would that be cliche? He's not afraid to find out.


Books pages flip across the room. Boots tap irritably. She groans and whines. She grumbles. She rolls her brilliant tawny eyes.

He smirks.

He loves times like this. True, they spent most of their time alone together, but he still loved to see the little things that she would do when she knew no one else was looking. The way her brow frowned in frustration. The small smirks she wouldn't dare offer when anyone else could see. The way she would look at him in concern when he was flustered. They way she would tap her pen ruthlessly when she was worried.

He observed her more often then he cared to admit.

She slams her book shut with an annoyed growl.

"Something wrong?"

"It's too cliché."

He looked at her skeptically.

"The ending."

"Oh, the book."

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Of course, the book."

He got to his feet, suddenly realizing how stiff his back felt, and walked over casually. She pushed the book across her desk. He looked at it, pondering the title as he ran a finger over the cover.

"I thought you didn't like romance."

"I don't." Her voice was sharp.

"Then why are you reading this one?"

"I thought I could find one that wasn't cliché. I suppose I was incorrect."

"Guess you were." He yawned and retreated to his desk.

Soon after, the room was filled with an ear-piercing ruckus as the rest of his team returned.

----------

"Damn."

"Sir?" She glances across the room at him, her eyes flashing with some sort of unnecessary concern.

"I was running out of witty comments."

She smirks, and looks as if she's trying to hold back a laugh. Too bad, he'd love to hear her laugh. He didn't get that privilege very often.

The remnants of a bagel lay in crumbs on a table. She sighs.

"Breda had no sense of cleanliness."

Roy chuckles and rubs the back of his head.

"No, he doesn't. He needs to find a girlfriend or something to teach him to clean up after himself."

She pauses and taps her pen momentarily.

"Perhaps." A simple response, a guarded one.

A few moments of silence. Never strange, she was a woman of few words. It contrasted starkly with his extensive vocabulary. He fiddled with a folder. She glanced at the clock on the wall. He searched for something to fill the gap.

"I can't believe the old General was shot."

She blinks. "Why not?"

"I dunno. He always seemed to be so… Aware. Now, it's weird to think he's dead, I guess."

She wrinkled her nose again. Strange, the motion was very un-Hawkeye.

"What?"

She taps her pen. "It's so cliché."

"How so?" He feels his head tilt to the side slightly.

"He was some expert general, who was shot by some rising star in the villain world. The essence of military cliché death."

He huffs. "I think you're a little over the top about this whole 'cliché' thing."

"Am I out of line, Sir? I apologize."

There she goes again. Bye-bye lose and comfortable Riza, hello strict Hawkeye.

"Not at all, Lieutenant."

She smiles softly and exhales.

Was she holding her breath? Sometimes, she thinks he's to perceptive for his own good.

Maybe she's right.

He watches her stand and straiten something on her desk. Without so much as a glance back at him, she grabs her coat and heads for the door. She knows he will wish her a good night and she will more then likely respond kindly and look at him, as if there were more meaning in her words. Maybe he was simply imagining the look in her eyes. It's entirely possible.

She pauses, her hand on the doorknob. "Sir…"

"Yes, Hawkeye?" He blinks, puzzled. It was rare that she would initiate the goodbyes.

She seems to be stalling, her fingers tap on the knob gently.

"Nevermind." She finally sighs.

"Very well. Good night."

She looks at him over her shoulder and nods. "See you tomorrow."

She exits, leaving him looking after her like a fool. "Wonder what was on her mind."

-----------

The sun rises, casting a brilliant orange haze through the window. His desk is illuminated, as is her face. She gets to her feet and salutes tensely when he enters. The usual conduct would have included something along the lines of 'At ease, soldier.' but he knew there was no need. He flashes her a simple smile and offers a good morning. Her hands return to her sides and she nods.

As usual, there is a stack of work waiting patiently on his desk. She sits and begins writing, working. His work. He stifled a groan. So much was communicated between them without anything being said in the open. She knew he hated doing his work, and he knew she was more then happy to remove his burden. He felt so greedy though, knowing she would so willingly do almost anything his heart asked.

Almost anything.

A shiver ran down his back.

She glanced up at him, as if sensing how awkward he was feeling. He flashed a reassuring smile and she returned to her work.

A slight glance at her desk revealed to him that she had not brought in another book today. He was going to comment, but he didn't want to go into another cliché conversation.

Another bought of silence. This time, he was nearly desperate to fill it. Though he wasn't sure why. Luckily, she seemed to be ready.

Yet again, it was as if she could read his mind.

"Havoc and Breda won't be in for the next few days, Sir."

"Why? Did they got lost again?" He chuckled.

"No Sir, they were called away on a mission in Seliba."

"Seliba?"

"Yes, Sir. An old mining town. According to what I heard from them, the miners have been revolting regularly."

He nods in understanding. "So they send in the government to clean it up, I get it." A low grumble erupts from his chest as he sits. "So, the only ones left are Fuery, Falman and Breda?"

"No, Fuery is away at a radio engineering workshop." She paused from her writing and looked over at him. "All you have is Falman and Breda."

He raised and brow. "Wrong."

"Sir?" She flexed her hand, it ached form writing.

She watches cautiously as he gets to his feet. A few clomping steps of boots and he is hovering over her desk. His hand slides through the air and lands delicately on hers. "I have my best shooter, as well."

She stares at him, taken in by the depths of his charcoal eyes. She feels her hand go limp as he touches her index finger gently and pulls his hand away.

"You really mustn't injure that hand, Lieutenant." He locks his hands behind his back and returns to his desk. The look on her face makes him sick. It's as if she wished he would have continued to hold her hand, to feel the warmth of his skin penetrate her cold flesh. But at the same time, it felt like her glare was digging into his heart. She looked almost taken aback by his sudden sign of affection.

Damn, this woman could be so confusing.

Finally, she cleared her throat and fought to regain her nearly destroyed composure. "I will try my best, Sir."

He narrowed his eyes, confused for a moment. He had nearly forgot he had said something to her.

"Good."

He could feel his stomach churning. He wanted nothing more then to walk over to her and grab her hand. Maybe pull her up into his welcoming arms. Perhaps he could take her out of the office and run to some little park down the street. They could have run down to the coffee shop on the corner. Maybe had something for dinner.

No.

She wouldn't have wanted that… Would she? He didn't dare ask. Instead, he picked up his pen and began signing his life away. Not literally, but he may as well have. It seemed to monotonous, signing these papers and contracts he didn't bother to read. These damn forms that could bring peace or cause more war. Signing them, day in and day out, 24 hours, 7 days a week…

It was so… cliché.

His face exploded into a low chuckle.

Her gaze shot to his face, her brow creased in concern. "Sir…?" She sounded so hesitant. What was she worried about? It's not like he was losing it. Not yet, at least.

"Sorry, Lieutenant. Just… Thinking about something."

"You think quite loudly, Sir."

She offers a sly smirk, he returns it with another laugh.

"At least I don't speak while I think."

She frowns. "I only do that occasionally Sir, and only when I can't think clearly."

He winks. "I know. Personally, I think it's kind of cute when you do it."

She visibly tenses. "Sir…" She shoots him a warning glare. He grins and raises a brow, as if daring her to make a move. Her clenched fists begin to ache and she relaxes. Always the mature one, she picks up her pen and returns to her work.

He grumbles something that may have been 'you're no fun' but she ignored it. He had tendencies to act like a five year-old.

He sat back and lamented. Occasionally, she would look up through her lashes to see if he was still staring at her. Which he was. She rolled her eyes and tapped her pen quietly. "Sir, don't you have something to work on?"

It wasn't really a question. He could tell by her tone.

"Most likely, but I need to ask a question."

"Anything, Sir."

He cleared his throat and fiddled with his pen. "Well, if you know someone for a long time, it's natural your would begin to grow feelings for them, correct?"

"I would assume so, Sir."

"And, if the two work together closely, like, really close, then it would seem even more natural."

"I guess so."

"So…. Do you think _that_ is cliché?"

A soft smile graced her lips. "Sir, you are anything but cliché. I'm sure any love story that involves you couldn't possibly be."

He exhaled deeply. "Good to know."


End file.
